One more blow, Deathan decided. Not a sting but a thrust. And not to MacNabh’s heart but his throat.
Deathan’s feet quickened. He raised his blade and began to whirl.
“Chief MacNabh! Chief MacNabh! ’Tis the Caledonian woman! She is dyin’.”
The guard who burst in through the stable door was very young and soaking wet. Face pale and eyes wide, he seemed to fail at grasping what took place in the center of the crowded stable.
At his words, the battle halted, and MacNabh bellowed, “Wha’?”
Nay, Deathan thought at the same instant.Nay, and nay.
The lad, out of breath, centered his attention on his chief. His words came out in a garbled stream. “They pounded on the door and said she was ill—dyin’! They are usually so quiet, chief, I didna know what to do. The one said Mistress Roisin had knocked the other down and broke her head. She did look all battered, so I carried her. Carried her down to the hall. I went to find the old healer and sent him there, then I came straight to ye.”
“Curse it all!” MacNabh, blood trickling down his face and from his shoulder, lowered his borrowed sword. “Where is the woman now?”
“Still in the hall, chief. I sent the healer thence—”
“Unguarded?”
“Wi’ Mistress Roisin and Mistress MacNabh.”
MacNabh gave a roar. Without awaiting further information, he brushed past the lad and ran out into the yard, sword still in hand.
Deathan followed him.
Nothing on earth could have held him back, though he could hear Ardroch giving orders behind him, and he sensed the young guard followed.
Then he was in the rain and could hear nothing at all save the drops crashing all around him. Had it ever rained so? No matter. Only one thing meant aught to him now. If something had happened to Darlei…
How would he go on? Face the rest of his life?
MacNabh rushed in through the house door, which stood open and unguarded. With his foot on the threshold, Deathan hesitated. This one step and what he found within could changeeverything. For on this turn of the wheel—in this life—he might have lost her.
Which meant he would have to search for her again, in the next.
He went in to find the hall full of smoke and in confusion.
Servants, a couple of girls and an old man, milled about. A blowsy woman whom MacNabh addressed as Roisin, who was bleeding profusely from the head, teetered on a bench. An old woman—little more than a bundle of bones and clothing—lay stretched out on the floor, moaning.
No sign of Darlei, living or dead.
MacNabh planted himself in the middle of the floor and roared, “Wha’ goes on here? Roisin? Mother?”
He looked to the old woman, who, with the help of an equally aged man who must be the aforementioned healer, sat up and began babbling at him. She had very few teeth and was difficult to understand, but MacNabh must have managed, for he listened and then barked at her, “Where is she now?”
Roisin got to her feet. Formidable and large breasted, she faced MacNabh with a burning gaze. “Gone!” She gestured to the open door. “The both o’ them.”
Both?Orle.
“Did ye no’ go after them?”
“How? They pushed yer mam down. And me. As soon as Angus had gone for the healer, they stopped wi’ playing at being ill and leaped up. Attacked us. Yer princess had the spit fro’ the fire. Look, she has burned me!”
Just like a wild woman, Deathan thought on a bound of the heart. Even as he’d fought for her, she’d been fighting for herself.
He turned his gaze to the door, to the crashing rain. Gone, but where?
“After them!” MacNabh yelled, ignoring Roisin’s complaints. “Someone fetch my horse.” He turned and glared at Deathanbefore letting his gaze slide past him. “Ardroch!” he called. “They canna get far on foot, no’ in this weather.”
